Building Blocks
by Bildungsroman
Summary: Because there had to something of more substance between them than the foundation and shot glasses on the mantle
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

He caught her off guard last Christmas. Between singing "Jingle Bell Rock" at inappropriate volumes and sniffling throughout It's A Wonderful Life, it was rather difficult for her to keep track of when someone came in the room to witness her self-imposed humiliation. She flushed, naturally, and bumbled some half-witted excuse as to why she was being so vociferous in her holiday cheer. A little drunk off the eggnog, the kids were a sleep and she felt that it was finally her "grownup time" of the evening, or perhaps her non-discrete love for the warmth Noel always seemed to bring (the house resembled Santa's workshop if it ever went into overdrive)? But, he knows her and her oddities, so he chuckled, smiled, and in a very awkward-attempting-to-help Cloud-esque move kissed her temple to calm her down and walked away. The pink hue tickled at her cheeks for three choruses of "Let It Snow".

But, happiness fell short of enough in the coming months and she started tosling the bed sheets about at night until they were left in a crumbled heap on the floor each morning. Each vapid answer of his made a pit of bile rise in her throat and it burned whenever she had to swallow it once more.

She used to dream a little when it was convenient, but dreams required time and effort and at the end of the day the cool surface of the bar top on her aching forehead served as more of a comfort than a brief phantasm. Soundtracks rewound and clicked in time with the clock all day and sometimes, when she lost herself, she fancied to sing along. But humming, humming was good. It suited the air of the ruckus caused by her patrons each night; a little bit of drowned out quiet was a lovely contrast because even though she couldn't hear it, it was there.

She started collecting trinkets last Tuesday. She found beads from Marlene's many art projects had rolled into the cracks in the floorboards, covered in dust to show the time had changed. She found them at three in the morning while dusting (insomnia was gnawing at her again) and was torn between disturbed and nostalgic at the fact that she couldn't bear to throw them away.

She stopped racking the leaves in the yard three Saturdays ago when she realized that she liked red, orange, and gold far more than the dying green on the yard.

She's sitting in one of the bar's chair with her bare feet propped up on the table, something she patronizes the children about, just looking out the window. Cloud went out two minutes ago to take Denzel his gloves ("His fingers will fall off!" "Just because you get cold at fifty degrees doesn't mean the rest of us do Chocobo Head."). And she likes the sight of Cloud pulling the warm wool over the little boy's hands; she'll probably play it over in her head when business is slow one day.

Holding some scrap paper from Marlene's latest artist endeavor on her knee and a piece of charcoal that was broken one to many times, she's sketching TC over any over again on the little leaflet, liking the way the black is so striking and obvious on the page. She murmurs to herself what to do with it seeing as she has no intention of throwing it away. Cloud opens the door and seems to believe that it's perfectly fine to trek frost and dew on her newly polished floors.

She chucks the paper at her blockhead in annoyance as she always does. It's not like he ever reads it anyway.

She wants to believe that in the end things work out. In her opinion however, the person who made that little blurb up was a crack pot and probably possessed as much sense as Yuffie did when she got into the liquor storage. But, she figured that one day something would arise that held a little more substance than the foundation their home was built on or the fact that they both shared the same roof. Sometimes when he doesn't come home or when she finds him sleeping beside the front porch, one hand spread across his stomach and the other behind his head as a make shift pillow, she thinks that maybe the dreams are a little more concrete than even he will ever be. But, then there's those moments when it's obvious that he prefers hugs as "thank you's" to simple words that make her find a bit of function in him and a bit of warmth that she sometimes doubted to be there. There's those times when he's looming over her shoulder as she cooks that make her admonish herself for ever thinking him to be anything but human. When he remembers her favorite color is yellow or she sees him reading fairytales to the children at night that she realizes she should take his dream a little. And for once, she's halfway hopeful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

He's making snow angels in the front lawn; Denzel beside him, he's trying to convey to the little boy why that particular cloud looks like the frosted cupcakes he likes to eat on his birthday. Tracing the swirl of the sugar on top with his fingertips; sketching small stars in the icing for the sprinkles she goes out to find especially for him each year, he doesn't understand why Denzel can't see as he sees.

Softly laying his outstretched arm back at his side (it's too quiet to make a sound), he chooses not to notice when the child beside him starts tugging at his hair. From above he figures his angel never came out the way he hopes it would; that one wing spreads high above its head while the other looks damaged, crippled and useless. He asks Denzel if he knows what angels are.

"Of course I do! They have feathers and fly a little over our heads."

The young man chuckles and the inklings of a cold itch at his throat; true, he whispers, they can fly, but they don't fancy being over us to often. He thinks they prefer to stand besides; hold our hands and smooth the stray hairs out of our face that block our vision. He can't help but look inside where she's writing backwards words on the frosted glass. He thinks angels hide their wings so then we're not afraid that they'll fly off and leave us the kick the dust away ourselves. Angels soar up to the heavens, but stay grounded so then we think that we're extraordinary too.

He sleeps behind the bar's dumpster sometimes; below her window because when she thinks that she's alone she starts to sing melodies and hymns. If he could harmonize he would, because the music would taste so much sweeter if he could sing it too.

He struck a chord, a flat note, and he couldn't get the screech out of his head for forty-six days. At night he would go insane and hear fluid rushing through his mind. She kept the monsters away; she'd hold his head too harshly and grasp as hard as she could for that little bit of mentality that always seemed to be slipping away. He's selfish. He's hyper focused. He's three weeks late to Thanksgiving dinner and can't understand why she left a place set at the table. He can't fathom why she still cares. Because he likes to stand near her and immerse himself in a sweet scent for once. He goes over compliments in his head and bashes it against the wall when he can't remember the witty remark he thought of yesterday to tell her. And he sees that he's robotic and constantly short-circuiting. But, four days ago he remembered that her favorite color is yellow and caught her off guard when he said she was beautiful.

Two days before Christmas he was walking through the streets of Edge and came across a hole-in-the-wall knick-knack store. Had a dollar seventy-three and found her favorite book in the back left hand corner of the fiction section. The old woman rang it up to a total of five eighty-three and didn't laugh at him as he expected when he laid the carefully smoothed out bill and cents on the countertop. He had spent five dollars on a ballerina music box for Marlene earlier that day and now was blundering his way through a bartering attempt that was doomed to fail. He said it was for a pretty girl that spent far too long behind a bar and didn't get enough chances to fantasize about unimaginable things he felt he could never provide for her.

And when the old woman (Dorothy as her nametag stated) pushed back the money and tucked the beaten soft cover under his arm, he felt that worlds are worth saving after all.

It took him until four days after Christmas to summon the courage to stuff the worn out paperback in her hand and run away before she had a chance to even glance at the title. When she found him later than night partially covered in snow (in his haste he had neglected to put on a coat) and sneaking through the front door in an attempt to make it up to his bedroom silently, she hugged him and gave him a kiss on his cold, flushed cheek. And he decided that it was worth the cold, the embarrassment, and the lost sanity from trying to come up with a plausible way to present a belated Christmas gift.

He's watching her show Marlene and Denzel a magic trick. Showing them her empty hands and pulling a quarter from behind their ears, she laughs loudly at Denzel's exclamation that he's rich. The ridiculous little boy then begins to shake his head violently in an attempt to wiggle the supposedly copious fortune out.

He decides she's something more. She's more strong than forgiving, more forgiving than stubborn, more stubborn than happy, more happy than thoughtful, more thoughtful than kind, more kind than cynical, more cynical than perfect. And he likes that imperfect Tifa who blushes when she's caught singing and is easily amused by the simplest things. She reminds him that he doesn't have to do everything right.


	3. Chapter 3

She thought her heartbeat was erratic for that couple of minutes to be the correlation of the wilting daisy frowning at her from the mantle

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

She thought her heartbeat was erratic for that couple of minutes to be the correlation of the wilting daisy frowning at her from the mantle. It couldn't even stand upright and it's stem had split open in the middle causing the surrounding area of the wound to brown like a repulsive sore. She spent an hour trying to prop it back up again and in the end decided to tape it to the wall in a make-shirt effort to smooth it out and up.

She found it trampled in the street earlier that morning as she walked back from the park with Marlene and Denzel holding her hands. Mitten upon mitten, the two deemed it necessary to always travel en masse no matter where they went or how large a portion of the sidewalk they took up. On the corner stood the flower vendor who specialized in winter jasmine at that time of year, so, naturally, the two children ran sprinting off to decide what would look best in their surrogate mother's hair.

She saw it lying on the street asking someone to bring it home, and it fascinated, captivated her vision and enraptured her thoughts in the few fleeting seconds until it became impossible to walk away. For so long she had retained the only stable sanity in the household, and for once the urge to be stark raving mad scratched and plucked at her heartstrings. It was punctured, wounded and could barely be seen amongst the powder dusting the city invisible, so in her level-headed nature she dove into the midst of the midday traffic and managed to salvage a flimsy stem with four dingy petals attached.

She tucked it into her coat and delicately closed the pocket, and when she found her two little miscreants a quarter of an hour later hidden amongst the snow berries, she found she did not prefer any flower in the entire green house to the little mutilated wonder beneath her palm.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of parts of her heart pushing different, colorful petals behind her ears and bickering between when they could not agree on which hues matched her eyes.

She found that after the children were far away in dreams, on pirate ships and horseback, she enjoyed simply staring at the peeling paint that she really should fix and the dead, horrendous looking daisy that she just couldn't keep standing as long as she liked. But she always had an affiliation for broken toys, parts of wholes, jumbled puzzles, and a natural talent for refusing to ever allow their tapestries to unravel from one another. But, she required no saving and was self-sufficient in her right. She wasn't breakable, but she was fragile. When the children weren't home he'd put holes in the walls and bumble his way through and apology as she bandages his black and blue knuckles. She cries every other Thursday like clockwork because it's only in his sleep that she harbors the courage to kiss his lips chapped raw in the cold.

But, he has a passion for storytelling and will even do the different voices (even ones as high as Aeris's) if she pokes and prods him enough. He made the children believe that they could defeat witches by pouring milk on them (they're lactose intolerant you know) and that the moon was only as far away as one good jump.

They needed each other one time, sometimes, all the time, because walks were more enjoyable when two move in step as one. They made each other laugh, smile, and cry one day, some days, every day.

Because, in a cage sang a mockingbird who found that she couldn't bear to be so lonesome in the wide world. And even though the hinge was broken and the door swung wide open in the mid-afternoon breeze, she never ventured out. But she dreamed to be allowed to perch upon calloused fingers, but they never reached out to offer the stand as they had for so long feared they might let her fall. So, on a willow branch sings a mockingbird, not so lonesome after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Building Blocks

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

He started leaving them small leaflets and trinkets under the doormat each morning. Just articles, collections of words, and bits of his self-entitled minuscule sentiments that he imagined the children would find to be physical manifestations of the adoration he felt but could never convey. Marbles that had rolled off into isolated areas of the towns he visited on his deliveries, fragments of photographs he filched from newspapers on his routes, and crude drawings in which he paints a rudimentary landscape they all may imagine him in. His fosters his love and cares for it like a devoted father cares for his child; he nurtures it and is so remarkably proud as he watches it take its first steps and grow.

In his head there are echoes that resound off his mind's membrane and drifts in and out of his obscure thoughts. Some meander about in a way that leads him to believe they will never fade while others chortle deeply in tremors that mock his stupidity. He used to be in his head all day making nice with his horridly tormented thoughts, but now he prefers the ever growing movie collection Tifa makes him watch. He prefers the way she hits him whenever he falls asleep in the middle of a horror movie ("I've seen kittens scary that this; you have a horrible taste in horror" "Well, your head looks like a Chocobo's butt." "Act your age not your shoe size.") to perhaps anything his mind could conjure up.

Over the countertop she tends to smile at him. He maintains his usual sangfroid despite the fact that there are two small children dangling like pendulums from his arms.

The notes he leaves her in her books are insufficient and otiose in his mind, but they'll be there for years anyway as a means to show some physical compassion for her nerves when he can't bring himself home. When the rain is cloaking him in a veil of gray, and he can no longer see the sky sprawling lazily above his head; he thinks of her by the windowsill in the early hours of the evening showing the children the road he will ride down long after they've gone to bed. And it's comfort. And it's food for his gnawing heart that's half stapled to the ground and the hard panel of his kitchen floor. He imagines her reopening Utopia or perhaps Pride & Prejudice now that he's gone. He can see her out of the corner of his eye reading the simple line that had taken him forty-five minutes to write: "Who's going to save you when I'm gone?"

Because he doesn't know and can't sum up a morsel of audacity to wrap his arms around any of them and hold them so close to his heart that they'll never doubt that it's beating ever again. He can't help watching over her in the moonlight as she sleeps because he knows of demons that lurk in the shadows and steal angels as they lay sleeping. He draws her cartoon wings in his mind so then she knows she can fly away from here if she so chooses. He traces grey outlines and feathers the color of the old lace his mother used to wear on her dress. Sometimes he leans over her and kisses her while she dreams because in those moments he prays she'll wake up.

He's been sitting with her for far longer than he should have, but can't seem to lift his head from the crook of her neck as she tells him stories from a small little hardcover she's had since she was an infant. Her throat hums as she talks and vibrates against the top of his head lulling him into a halfway dream.

"Just look at the sheer imagination and wit of Barbot de Villeneuve; true, her work does reflect a few select horrid beliefs of their time, but in such an age, creativity on this scale is remarkable! Oh! This is my favorite part. Look at the illustration of Beast's rose. And Belle! She's an avid reader, always a plus with me, but she's just so beautiful. And, you want to know a secret?" He hums an incoherent answer in reply. "I think this is where they fall in love. Side by side, sharing the world in all its obscurities and horrid nature to one another; what do you think?"

But he's come to find her shoulder to be a wonderful surrogate pillow and the accompaniment of the scent of her skin isn't helping in his attempt to stay awake for the remainder of her literary analysis. And in his subconscious there are tremors of her laughter resounding throughout his body and a part of him musing over the possibility that she'll find him a comfort too.

But he can't get the clawing and bruises out of his mind; he cannot find that bit of function she seems to see in some place he can never reach. And he knows he hurts her and he might as well signal some inkling of how he feels so then she can try to help. But he can't. And he's ashamed. Because one day while she was counting the ceiling titles and repositioning an odd little flower she had apparently taped to the wall while he was away, he marched up to her and decided that maybe it wasn't the best or the right time, but it was time to tell.

"I'm sick." He stared her head on and refused to blink until he had said everything he needed to. "I'm sick and there's nothing you can change about that. So, stop. Stop trying to help because you can't, won't, and never will. Just stop because you're destroying me and can't even realize it."

And before she could gain back control of her mouth, he promptly stomped out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Building Blocks

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

She knows sometimes he means to hurt her. She understands that on the off chance he retreats back into his subliminal self in his alone time there's the possibility that he imagines her transparent and burned out like he feels his insanity may one day make her become. But in the midst of the maelstrom of snow she's ambling though, there's the mutinous little boy he can't seem to shake off completely fuming under a streetlamp a couple minutes shy of sunset.

There are tufts of smoke billowing from the confines of his mouth as he exhales and she's been wandering the streets mulling over his name for an hour or two. She brought him a coat because she knows he's cursed to perpetually leave it hanging from the closet hangers each time he storms out. On a bench he sits and though their eyes have been locked for quite some time no one has said a word. On the tip of her tongue something balances and pirouettes waiting to come up, but those vocal luxuries are only for those who don't mind finding her every now and then. Because she can't be this intangible angel that seals cracks in the earth all day and night, so until he remembers there's always a key under a mat, she'll take her advice and let her actions speak for themselves.

In the setting sun her eyes have undergone a metamorphosis from vapid shells to a remarkable, evanescent smolder that she hopes won't frighten him. She grips his leather jacket in her hands, rings it for a moment, and shoves the coat through the air and into his surprised face. She's crying, loathes herself for that, and there's those horridly, insane thoughts wondering if it'd help to tear her eyes out.

Before he can find his way out of the limbo of fabric, she's screaming and the thought bemusedly pokes at him that she still looks gorgeous despite the fact that her face is contorted in rage. She's screaming, because she wants him to know who she is even if every blood vessel and vocal chord in her throat burst.

She hoped he'd at the very least make some vague attempt to touch her, so when he doesn't, she pivots sharply on her heel and walks away. If he calls out to her at all, she doesn't want to know. Because she's content watching out for him from her bedroom window when she thinks no one's looking. And she can see him just out of her peripheral vision though she knows there's no possibility that he's hovering just outside the second story.

But she's fine and likes to believe he is too. In her arms she holds Marlene while Denzel tells her about his day from his position on her back as she attempts to do her chores with the extra weight. There's a bit of sunlight accentuating the ever apparent peeling paint and dust fragments swirling about in the air. Her arms are aching and she can never fully bring herself to put her two babies down. She starts hording everything in her closet again. Articles, pictures, t-shirts, crumpled up bills, flowers, pens, sock puppets she has made with the children, jars they used to catch fireflies with, and lines she writes in which brevity is all she can manage.

But she's fine. The children have been bothering her for weeks after he happened to mention to them one day that she plays piano. She takes them to the store and plucked out the refrain of Chopin's Etude No. 1 until the clerk kicks them out. She observes the cornerstones of every street and her heart is slowly strangling itself without the oxygen she's so cruelly depriving it of.

In her mind the streets are paved with stars and lullabies, and she's afraid that he may have taken her outburst as abandonment rather than a wake up call.

Because she wants him to know that she curls within herself and hides whenever the patrons are becoming too much, and he tends to crumble like mountains before her very eyes in one disastrous movement that seems she'll never be able to stop.

Because there are two clocks winding up and down resounding plaguy ticks in the back of her head throughout the course of her day. One exploding loud and irksome reminding her that he may never be able to function and stop needing to be rewired while the other stalls and whirrs slowly portraying how long it may take for her to have a real family.

And her heart is hanging on rusty hinges every time the children or some of their friends ask where he's been for the past few days. She doesn't know and all that she has of him are the memories she uses to fill the void beneath her eyes as she sleeps. Under her bed she hides his pillow but finds sleep to be rather lackluster nowadays.

She's on the front porch laughing in her usual awkward way because Marlene and Denzel have tackled her to the ground and are proceeding to partially bury their mother with snow. In the steel and concrete towering over and surrounding her, she can catch glimpses of him now and then. But, she's going to play with her children today and not cry now that there's no one to kiss on Thursdays. Because she sees him standing across the street pink, pulsing, and unsure of how to introduce himself as usual. And when she coaxes the kids to stop piling snow on her and look up, she's not surprised that they immediately call him over and continue their endeavors of burying their guardian.

She's glad that children have such ability to forgive, because it may take a little more time to ebb and flow the negative feelings she has out of her system. She figures she must look ridiculous: cold and wet on her back in the snow. He's standing over her with a perplexed, wistful innocence etched like a battle wound on the side of his mouth. There are a few nicks and scratches dotting the landscape of his chin, but she'll ask him about that later. He kicks a little bit of snow in her face and he's doesn't care that he's pushing his luck. Because she is just so captivating flushed, mangy, and beautiful, incredible, he thinks, that he could ever stay away for so long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

She finds herself so drunk with devotion to the way words are. Each day she wonders who was it that penned the first text and was so enraptured by the steadfast, rigidity of an l, the curve and flow of an o, or the sharp blade of a v. Who was it that loved them so and thus wrote "love" in whatever language or form it may have been in?

And she does not wish to tell the world of this passion she has for the written word, so she shall do it through impartial, unbiased text where the meaning hides stubborn and relentless amongst the lines.

He knows this because of that childish excitement she seems to possess whenever she decides to spend her off days in the book store down the street while the children hide amongst the sprawling aisles. Some days he finds himself scalding hot in empty rooms; falling on the floor. His shadows etching cracks in the sidewalks.

Collectively, he concludes he will buy her nothing this coming February. No flowers, no jewelry of any sort or value. There will be no hint of romance accounting his affections via non-verbal means of bribery.

Recently he visited the shores of Costa Del Sol and under its sand he burrowed deep into the earth. Far away from Edge bits and pieces flourish, ebb and flow in more meaningful directions in his opinion. The sun that blurred a puckering lemon, and he screwed up his vision, rearranged the picture frame in his head. In the tips of his fingertips he imagined puppet strings and marionettes meandered about the coast reciting soliloquies to the obscured shoreline.

He had talked to her whilst all the madness occurred; through the receiver of his phone he mused about how the tintinnabulation of her voice sounds like the flats of piano keys: worn, but still beautiful.

Pushing the sand turned ruby red in the sunset, he can't fathom why the conversation has yet to turn to persuasion of the benefits of home at night. She tells him that Denzel unfortunately stuck his head between the banisters and she had to dismantle a portion of it in order to get the ever-so intelligent boy out. He realizes his shoes have filled up with sand.

In the evening hours he speeds through the streets of the lukewarm countryside as fields of budding wildlife wave his hazy figure goodnight. He tends to roll lethargically to a gradual stop in front of the twisted coating of dandelions. Finding it heavy-heartedly that some people feel the need to pluck the weeds from their homes and then scatter them trampled and dying on the highway a couple of feet away. He finds one to adore and cherished; a too ripe yellow he's certain will die in the coming hours. It didn't even last that long.

There are approximately four thousand stars in the sky and undistinguished constellations roaming about the heavens. The wind nips hot and bothersome in an uncharacteristically distorted horizon. In the back of his mind the thought occurs to him that it's certainly quite cold, but the images of his family ghost their arms across his back, hold tight, and keep him warm snug.

When he trundles up to the bar the lights are still on and the garage is flickering on and off like a lighthouse in the distance. There's an echoing silhouette like a cardboard cut out behind the counter, and there will probably be a sigh of relief when he comes home.

He can see it in her mind; a magnificent waltz and her hair curled up off her neck. On the ceiling hang chandeliers and in the sheen of the floor a paled Tifa gazes back at her own image. He caught her off guard once again; apparently in her far off mentality she was unable to notice his presence. He really should remember that her reflexes are at times quicker than her thought process.

Thereby, his face contorts in fear at her approaching fist.

Minutes later after compressing an ice pack, profuse apologies, and stray thoughts on how adorable one another is in their helpless natures, the music crescendos into piano keys as she explains how her day was bit by bit. Sometime between noon and four o'clock, he tucks a slowly wilting dandelion behind her ear. In the mess of brown he finds it resembles a complimentary gold and chocolate. Like a gift; maybe he should buy her a gift.

Her delight is evident as she delicately touches the countless petals. There's no need for thank you. There's never a need for voiced reassurance. They're crouched close to the ground looking at one another, then she drops her forehead to rest it on his shoulder. There's that bit of simplicity he needs; there's that piece of gratification he loved.

Four days passes and while the clouds bicker upon whether or not they feel like snow today, he's calculated and thought for three hours. When he awakes, he leaves no cards, flowers, jewels, trinkets, knick-knacks, watches, candies, books, or specialized pens on the countertop as she had partially expected.

He delivers presents to others whom he has no connection to. Lovers whose future he plays out in his head based upon their reactions at their Valentines Day gifts.

At some point in the evening she had left the children to their own devices having tired of explanations to Denzel and Marlene of why little girls or boys do not have cooties or any such infectious disease. The chime above the doorframe rings and she glances over her shoulder at her approaching housemate and smiles widely at his face tinted pink by the cold.

She opens her mouth to greet him. He interrupts. "I have a magic trick to show you." But before she gives her consent he leans in suddenly. And he's kissing her, slightly off target (his lips landed on the corner of her mouth), but he's kissing her none the less. He pulls away, embarrassed, and she looks at him blankly.

"Cloud?" Now he's unsure. She needs to stop looking at him, but that only revamps his bravado, and he smiles.

"Oops." Infuriated, she makes a move to open her mouth, but he stops her. "Missed."

And there's that euphoria fluttering in her heart. There's a tinkering sense of recognition that everything is taking flight through watercolor skies and tissue paper clouds. She's lost control of her mouth it seems, but he's grinning despite himself. When he draws away, he whispers against the confused crease in her forehead, "See? Magic?"

And though it may have faded before their very eyes, he thinks there must be some merit in the dying dandelions.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

If she could compose a symphony, she'd lull the world to sleep. Across the bows of violins and plucked on the strings of countless harps, she'd crescendo over the valleys, atop the highest peaks, and be the whisper of the wind in the trees. She'd paint the world unambiguous and weave vibrant fabrics with her hands. In the sunlight she'd create a child's art project of tissue paper seas, finger painting skies, and paper maché balloons that would drift high into the atmosphere and create fickle grey clouds.

The bits and pieces of spring are coming together with such haste and poor design that it reminds her of the children attempting to finish the jigsaw puzzles stored high on the shelves of the backroom. Erupting from the earth grew flowers and all sorts of newborn buds. He plants a garden every year, or at least he did. The previous spring he wasn't there to tend to his little blossoms, and no matter what she did, they succumbed to gravity and time. But, now as she lays on her stomach, warmed by the growing grass, she ruminates about how odd it looks to see him so concentrated on digging small divots in the flower bed for his annuals. Denzel declared such actions "unmanly" around noon that day and she thoroughly enjoys the childish, disproving glare he is giving his guardian from the household window.

She closes her eyes and incoherently deems it a lovely moment to take a nap. The wind coiling about their home is the odd shift between winter and summer, so she finds herself contently snug in his sweatshirt surrounded by a nice, soapy boy smell.

It's been exactly three weeks, two days, and three hours since their kiss. It's also been three weeks, two days, and three hours since the last time she had the pleasure to feel his hesitant, school boy charm freezing her insides.

There are no boyfriends, unclear waltzes, or million dollar prizes. And she's ghosting over the paper doll fragility of his figure with her eyes wondering what linsey-woolsey they're weaving. What colors threading the shades of grey with insufficient bonds until what had been dreamed to be so achingly beautiful years ago had mutated into something entirely foreign.

Happiness, family, purpose? Maybe it was trailing down like paint on a canvas across the great expanse about her head. Maybe it was hiding amidst the subtle variations of blue or collecting amongst the dust gathering in the corners of the bar. She'll busy herself with other matters for the time being. Because, as she introduces her baby dolls in their bright eyed wonder to the glorious power of opera, she argues with the two children that music does not include anything whose lyrics command her to "shake it". Because he's rather protective of her well being and knowingly slips his fingers in between hers sporadically throughout the marketplace.

And she so horridly cold that her scars are purpling about their perimeters. The moments she sees hers bare stomach and its markings in the mirror, the pit of her stomach froths with such courage that she believes nothing could ever kill her. Perhaps she's not entirely human but something more; some creature that synthesized and underwent a metamorphosis in the midst of the night as she slept.

But, she knows that is far from true. She's cries, bleeds, and continues to dance behind the bar long after she's closed. Though, at this she wants to be a robots. To not feel and work on clockwork, but if that were the case she wouldn't know that he's an odd mix between soft and calloused. Then she'd tick, short circuit, and she's not broken, so she finds no reason to be fixed.

But there's just too many people in the world she had wished to meet and speak to. Because in her mind's eye there's six thousand scenarios running like a broken record over and over and over.

Marlene had seen no gifts on the mantle for her poor surrogate mother that February, so at one point in her day while she had contemplated how hot the coffee was and why the entire load of laundry had decided to turn pink that day, a small hand slipped a small red heart onto the countertop, giggled, and scurried up the stairs before her lips had even curled into a smile.

There were imprints where the little girl had grasped the paper far too harshly and a small line with ink blotches every other letter. Apparently a "t" stood for tall, an "i" stood for irreplaceable, an "f" stood for forever, and an "a" stood for awesome. And perhaps there was some semblance of a smile in her small construction paper heart. There was a great deal of love; that was certain. Moving in parallels about the house she couldn't take this void of interaction, locked visions, and incessant small talk. But, on the lips who said her name so timidly as if it wouldn't be there after the minute passed, there was the Golden Saucer, Cosmo Canyon, Midgar, a well, her family, her friends, raging fire, falling plates, approaching meteors, and train stations where solider boys lay on the street waiting to be found.

The entire makeshift family, from men who sleep in coffins to hyperactive ninjas, has decided that her home would be a wonderful place to pop up. There's been a few gun shots put into her newly painted walls, a chain-smoking pilot dancing on her countertops, and a couple break ins into her wine cellar (apparently ninjas can pick locks), but she wouldn't change the company for the world. Barret plants a big, fatherly kiss on the top of her head while Denzel asks Vincent if he is a vampire.

A few comments that she is prettier and prettier each time he sees her from Reno, but those are widely unappreciated. She smiles politely anyway.

Her fist collides nicely with his chin when he attempts to grad her waist.

At the dinner table, he's telling her how quickly the garden is coming in; that the blue bonnets and roses looked like apples in blue berries in the sunlight. Cid and Barret are arguing over who may have the potatoes, Marlene has fed Cait Sith some carrots and he is now short circuiting, sparking, and will most likely catch on fire, and Vincent's eye is twitching while Denzel continues to list reasons as to why he is a vampire. Her mind is a mess and she can see the flowers waving to her from the blooming garden.

Cait Sith's left ear ignites. Lovely, just lovely. She doesn't even bother to stand up as the little girl chooses to pour her glass of water over the robotic cat.

"Tifa?" Her head turns slowly in the direction of the voice. It's Yuffie; she wants to know how she's been. She thinks before she speaks, recalls wintertime, paperbacks after Christmas, stars, snow, sunsets, snowberries, black and white movies, patrons perpetually hitting on her and in an instant she knows exactly how she is.

Turning to him, she grabs his face and before he can question her actions she kisses him spot on the mouth eyes wide open and a smirk forming at the corner of her lips. The entire room goes silent and after approximately fifteen seconds, she pulls back and looks at them with a crooked, confused eyebrow.

"What?" She laughs. "I'm tired of waiting."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Not too sure what this is. I apologize in advance for the oddity I am thus posting.**

**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

**Building Blocks**

There are butterflies trickling out of cracks in the walls like seeping wounds and party balloons exploding every few moments in his eardrums. But, that means speculation and interrogation, so he'll keep that little tidbit to himself and continue with the remainder of his evening.

Cautiously, he balances Marlene's pink tap shoes on his combat boots and moves in time with the heart monitor in the background. She beams up at him, radiating in the fluorescent lighting and he pivots slightly so then to see the hospital bed next to them.

About one-hundred and three minutes ago, an old woman was held up at gun point as she carefully counted her life savings behind the cash register of her bookstore. And he wonders who could look her in the eyes and not seen humanity and humility, but rather just a perfect stranger with no name or pulse. But, human is not a heartbeat, and thereby can seemingly be stripped of such in halves of seconds. The reports had read that three or four shots had been fired and the register cleared out before a distress call had even been uttered, so when the heading and picture flashed across the television screen he told his girlfriend that he had to run out to meet an old friend. Rather then comply; she followed, as did the children turning the visit of remorse into some side-show traveling circus of sorts.

He appreciated the gesture though.

The plans to lie had gone out the door when he unfortunately found that the hospital staff cared very little for whether or not he was the woman's family. They simply pointed towards the ER and sighed with the air that tragedy had become routine for them. A shame it is to numb.

Tifa had not questioned him and balanced Marlene on her hip as all four orphans stood at the end of Dorothy's bed. From a recollection of his, she was told that this was an older woman whom he had bought her paperback Christmas present from. Dorothy had given it to him for free it seemed; she made a mental note to place the cost of the book on the bedside table next to the woman before she left.

Now he was twirling his little girl about, trying not to cry. Tifa had taken Denzel down to the cafeteria a quarter-hour ago for hot chocolate, and now he was dancing in the room of a dying woman. How sick, he remarked and looked about, wondering where the bullet holes were and if they were at all similar to those of Zack's. He wasn't sure why he was here, though his logic was never on spot and as he looked into this eighty-something year old's sagging skin a slight terror of gravity sunk in and so did his knees to the floor.

"What's her name?" He cocked his head and looked at Marlene.

"Dorothy."

"Like the Oz movie?"

"Maybe."

"Over the rainbow!" A single beep resounded throughout the room and an imaginary marker stretched a bold, straight line across the screen.

"Quite." The two of them looked at the old woman and he resents himself for screaming. Marlene is terrified and bolts out the confines of his grasp and down the hall, certainly searching for Tifa. He silences himself and wipes his face on the sleeve of his jacket.

She is smiling in her departure, up at the ceiling as though she knows something he does not. And he cannot believe it, again. If he cannot keep the strangers of his world, how could he trust himself with those who grasp his emotions?

Resolutely, he kicks the heart monitor across the room, the force of the blow imbedding it into the wall


End file.
